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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 




Go, little book. 

You have your "discharge**; 

Go seek the world — 

The public at large; 

Go with the tales, 

As versed by a **Sarge'\ 

Of our olive drab existence. 



Copyright, 1918 
By Sergeant John Pierre Roche 



Copyright, 1918 
By Robert M.McBride & Co. 



'To F. K. M.'*i8 reprinted 

through the courtesy of 

Poetry Magazine 



New Edition, Revised and Enlarged 
Published, 1918 



RIMES 

IN 

OLIVE DRAB 

By SERGEANT 
JOHN PIERRE ROCHE 



NEW YORK 
ROBERT M. McBRIDE ^ CO, 

1918 






If there is anything in 
this little book worthy 
of the dedication — 

To my Mother 



Miiu 2'd 1818 
©CI.A5()i607 



To the American Foreign Legion 

God of might, give me the force of an ami 
Strong enough to wither when I strike; 

God of right, keep me freed from harm 
That I may die as I should like. 

I ask no craven^s freedom from the toll 

Of the legions marching towards the night, 

But when my name is added to the scroll, 
Grant I have struck and struck with might 

God of might, save me from a weakling^s spleen. 
Give me the chance to strike as does a man — 

Not as a cog in a drilled machine, 

But in single fury as a freeman can. 

God of right, do not keep me long 

From skulking death, if it lie in wait 

Lord, let me shout in Victory's song. 
Or be swept aside by an equal hate. 

God of might, hear my plea; 

Keep me not from, the strife and fray; 
Let me strike, O God of right. 

This very day, this very day! 



A Polish Alliance 

Romance has come into my life 

And come its way a-winging; 
Elusive sprite so often sought. 

And so my heart is singing. 
I never thought that I should meet 

My fate while clad in khaki. 
Because, remodel as you may. 

This issue stuff is tacky; 
But love is here and here to stay. 

To have and hold unending — 
I'll woo and win this latest love 

Against the world contending. 

No Norman maid has found her way 

Into my heart's abysses; 
No English girl has made me hers; 

In fact, no foreign misses 
Could claim the niche that this love owns 

Who makes my life so zestful. 
And yet I'll say my new love's name 

Is in a way distressful. 
I only hope my love's returned. 

He's but a simple rookie — 
A former Harvey chef who's now 

Warsinski, our new "cookie"! 



To a Crowd in a Cabaret 

The flash of flesh and shaded lights, 
The crack of corks and glutton's fare; 

The fog of smoke and laughter shrill: 
Is it for these that we prepare? 

The shift of feet and rhythmic beat 
Of banjo, drums and saxaphones. 

With swaying forms in serried throng: 
Is it for these that France atones? 

The preening glance and rounder's stare. 
The whirl and swirl of song and dance; 

"To jazz and jest!" with brimming glass: 
Is it for these they die in France? 



A Year From Now 

There is a pine tree 
Standing in the moonlight 
Where, from my tent, 
I can see it lift its head 
Against the sky. 
Standing guard over men 
Who, a year from now, 
May know such beauty 
Only through the voice 
Of others. 

Down the Company street 

A Victrola is playing — 

Julia Claussen is singing 

An aria from "Samson and Delilah'* 

Yet, a year from now, 

Those listening men 

May hear only 

The wobbling hiss 

Of gas shells. 

In a tent across the way, 

A crowd of rookies 

Are singing 

*'Good-bye Broadway — Hello France' 

With great gusto; 

And yet, a year from now. 

Those fresh young voices 

May be mute. 



To a Violinist 

(now a ''buck private") 

The throbbing tone of a violin 

With the tingling thrill of the concert hall. 
Played to a group in a trooper's tent, 

To ears attuned to a bugle call; 
A melody wrung by his fleeting bow 

With master touch and facUe ease. 
To wing its way through the flapping walls — 

A Kxeisler Caprice — ^his "Viennese''. 

As his fingers stop on the lilting strings 

To touch a note to glowing life, 
It seems to be unthinking waste 

To pledge this gift in futile strife — 
A genius risked against a shell, 

A talent thrown without a thought 
On scales now bent with human weight — 

Is peace to be so dearly bought? 



To our Indulgent Friends 

**Today I got your letter. 

Saying that a sweater 

Was on its way to me" — 

(This makes the fifth that's flitting 

Our way from angels knitting 

For those to cross the sea) 

*TAe wristlets are essentiaV' — 
(And yet a penitential 
Feeling fills our breast, 
To think that we have seven. 
Or maybe it's eleven. 
Already in our chest) 

*T^e *cig5' are just a blessing^* — 
(Emotions quite distressing 
Confound us as we think 
Of "smokes" beyond computing. 
And all the artful looting 
WeVe done with pen and ink) 



The things they send to rookies. 
From sleeping bags to cookies, 
They come on every mail. 
A ton of stufif we're stacking. 
And when it comes to packing 
We'll have to hold a sale. 

L'ENVOI 

Kind friendSf accept our thanks. 

But General Orders say 
A hundred pounds is all 

That we may take away; 
So kindly, if you will, 

Abstain from cm addition 
To what we have, until 

We get a Lieufs commission. 



The Latest Horror of War 

**Two hundred delegates to the Middlesex County W. C. T. V. 
assembled for their annual meeting in the First Baptist Church 
at Watertown adopted resolutions condemning the practice of 
sending gifts of tobacco to soldiers and sailors. Dr. Louis Rand 
of Newton, who presented the resolutions, spoke of the in' 
jurious effects of tobacco and urged the women to send books 
instead **'-News Item. 

It's mighty nice to know. 

When muck you're wading through. 
That your health is in the hands 

Of watchful ladies, who 
Are hep that nicotine 

Is worse than German spleen 
And are shipping books for you 

To the land of parlez-vous. 

"When frozen to the waist 

By a wind that's whistling keen, 
There's nothing quite so sweet 

As a book by Laura Jean; 
When shells are whizzing past, 

A Chambers, yes, his last. 
Or Anna Katherine Green, 

Will brighten up the scene. 



10 



When sleeping in the rain 

Although the light is dim. 
Just read a page or two 

In "They'' or mayhe "Kim"; 
And when gassed by nitric shells 
With every breath a stab, 
Try some of James' gab, 
Pick up "The Book of Kells" 
Or the latest thing by Wells! 

L'ENVOI 

Listen, ladies, there's cussing enough in the anny now, but if 
you want the boys to put some real pep in their profanity, just 
keep on powwowing about your dream of a smokeless army 
reading Browning and Shaw. The solacing whiff of a **cig** 
isn't such a hell of a lot to give to a man expected to kill or be 
killed; and you never saw a bunch of soldiers try to take 
your tea away and yet you hit the feathers early, get your three 
squares on a china plate and don't have to mount guard or do 
**kitchen police"; to say nothing of hiking, drilling or going 
over the top. It is silly to yap about the baneful effects of 
nicotine upon a pair of lungs that ten seconds after the last 
"drag** on a cigarette may be blown to blazes. It's too bad to 
have to talk this way to a lot of ladies who have been raised 
nice, and who have good ideas on how to run a Sunday school, 
but when you think tibat some day our men over there may be 
feeding the hungry maw of a machine gun, with their tongues 
hanging out for a smoke, and not get it, just because a lot of 
hearth-warmers somewhere in Massachusetts framed up a nutty 
resolution, you can't blame us for treating you rough, can you? 



11 



The White Feather 

When England asked her sons 
To take up arms again. 
One brother said good-bye 
At dawn in the drizzling rain; 
And his step on the creaking stair 
Will never echo there 

Again. Before he left 

He sat at his desk and wrote 

To his brother in the States — 

A simple, scrawling note 

To the brother who had spent 

His youth with him — and sent 

It overseas. He wrote: 
"You know our plighted word 
To stand as one and fight. 
No matter what occurred — 
And now we see the day 
We sought in boyish play. 

So come.'' The letter sped' 
Across the seas, and he 
Went out, as gentry do. 
In all fidelity 

To wait for the rendezvous — 
To wait and wonder, too. 



12 



He went and played the game. 
As any Eton lad 
Is taught to play, and stayed 
To give the best he had. 
Feeling that their troth 
Would surely bind them both; 

And then his answer came 
From the brother overseas: 
He regretted — ^yes — and yet. 
So understand him please! 

But his brother only knew 
That he must serve for two. 

Through two campaigns he went. 
To see his comrades die; 
And then in the Dardanelles 
He met the Reaper's eye — 
And died in the drizzling rain. 
Crushed and torn with pain. 

To the brother overseas 
Came a letter from the dead — 
Found in a steely grip. 
Its corners tinged with red — 
And when he tore the flap 
No writing met his sight. 
But on the floor there fell 
A single feather — white! 

13 



Honorably Discharged 

With the pallor 

Of the hospital 

In their thin cheeks — 

Dull-eyed and insecure 

Of step, they come 

With their discharges. 

Freed from the internment 

Of the base hospital. 

Foot-loose to go 

Where they will; 

To the hubbub of the city. 

To office or lathe. 

Or to the even days 

Of life in Vandalia, 

Or Cairo or Belvidere — 

Their journey ended 

Before its beginning. 

With the surgeon's indictment 
In their hands. 
They sag against the wall — 
The salvage of War. 



14 



Carpe Diem 



Out from the House of Life into the Night of Chance 
To walk untrodden ways as toys of Circumstance. 

What does the morrow hold? 
Who can tell — who shall say 
When reckoned by a score 
We total day by day. 

Through labyrinths unknown we stumble, plunge ahead, 
And some will pass unhurt while others greet the dead. 

What does the scorer say? 
Why try to answer yet — 
We will not be afraid 
Until the Thing is met. 

We find in us the key to sacrifices new. 

So when we meet with death, it may be simple, too. 

What does the cryptic read? 
Conjecture as you may — 
Come link arms with Life; 
Live gladly for today! 



15 



Trains 

Over thousands of miles 
Of shining steel rails. 
Past green and red semaphores 
And unheeding flagmen, 
Trains are running, 
Trains, trains, trains. 

Rattling through tunnels 

And clicking by way stations. 

Curving through hills, past timber. 

Out into the open places. 

Flashing past silos and bams 

And whole villages. 

Until finally they echo 

Against the squat factories 

That line the approach to the cities. 

Trains, trains, trains 

With the fire boxes wide open. 

Giant Moguls and old-time Baldwins 

And oil-burners on the Southern Pacific, 

Fire boxes wide open 

Flaring against the night. 

Like a tremendous watch fire 

Where the sentries cluster at their post 



16 



Trains, trains, trains 
Serpentine strings of cars 
Loaded with boys and men — 
The legion of the ten-year span 
To whom has been given the task 
Of seeking the Great Adventure. 

Swaying through the North and South, 

And East and West, 

Freighted with the Willing 

And the Unwilling; 

Packed with the Thinking 

And the Unthinking, 

Pushing on to the Unknown 

Away from the shelter and security 

Of the accustomed into the Great Adventure. 

Trains, trains, trains 

With their coach sides scrawled 

With chalked bravado and, sometimes. 

With their windows black 

With yelling boys. 

In open-mouthed exultation 

That they do not feel. 

Rushing further and further 

From the known into the unseeable. 



17 



Trains, trains, trains 

With sky-larking boys in khaki. 

Munching sandwiches and drinking pop; 

Or, tired and without their depot swagger, 

Curled up on the red-plush seats; 

Or asleep, with a stranger, in the Pullmans. 

They rush past our camp. 

Which lies against the railroad, 

With the crossing alarm jangling caution 

And fade into the dust or night, 

Leaving us to conjecture where 

As they have left others to wonder — 

As they must wonder themselves 

When they are done 

With the shouting and hand-shaking 

And kissing and hat-waving and singing. 

Trains, trains, trains 

Clicking on into unf orecasted days — 

Away from the shelter and security 

Of the accustomed into the Great Adventure. 



18 



On Guard 

A cloudless sky of peaceful stars 
Above a camp in tranquil rest; 
The keen wind stirs the pine trees, 
And the white road stretches on 
Like a path to the warring world. 

Halt! Who goes there? 

Was it nothing but the wind? 
There is a shadow on the grass 
And the crunch of brush underfoot 

Advance, friend, and be recognized! 

Let us see the Future's face: 
See if it is friend or foe; 

Let us tear its mask away — 
// this is Fate, then tell us so! 



19 



Mike Dillon, Doughboy 

Mike Dillon was a doughboy 

and wore the issue stuff; 
He wasn't much to look at — 

in fact, was rather rough; 
He served his time as rookie — 

at drilling in the sun. 
And cleared a lot of timber 

and polished up his gun. 

Mike Dillon was a private 

with all the word entails; 
He cussed and chewed tobacco 

and overlooked his nails. 
You never saw Mike Dillon 

at dances ultra nice; 
In fact, inspection found him 

enjoying body lice. 

If Mike had married money 

or had a little drag. 
He might have got a brevet 

and missed a little "fag"; 
But as a social figure 

he simply wasn't there — 
So Mike continued drilling 

and knifing up his fare. 
20 



In course of time they shipped 'em 

and shipped 'em over where 
A man like Mike can sidestep 

the frigid social stare. 
And do the job of soldier 

without the fancy frills, 
And keep a steady footing 

in the pace that really kills. 

Now Mike did nothing special; 

he only did his best: 
He stuck and **went on over" — 

and got it in the chest; 
Played it fair and squarely 

without a social air. 
And Mike is now in Heaven 
and at least a Corporal there! 



21 



The 108th Engineers Passes 

The staccato of drums, 

Beat upon beat; 

Lines of legs 

That flash apart 

And close again 

To flash apart 

In swinging step; 

The crisp fanfare 

Of strident bugles 

Above the sharp crash 

Of drums; 

Rifles a-slant. 

With bayonets 

A single flash in the sun. 

A blotch of red 

On an orderly's arm — 

The splash of colors 

Against the dust. 

And legs flashing 

As one 

Down the road 

The dull beat 

Of drums 

And the fading cadence 

Of bugles. 

22 



Life as a Gage You Flung 

There in an alien land, 

Lie quietly. 
Alien no longer now 

For you and me ; 
Fragrant the thoughts of you, 

Rare was your soul; 
Life as a gage you flung, 

Facing the goal. 

Life as a gage you flung. 

Flung as a rose; 
Gave it as gentry do. 

Gladly to those 
Who gave their glowing youth 

Gladly as you. 
Live in the heart of me — 

I gave you, too. 



23 



With Guidons Flying Red 

Into the clouds of stifling dust 
With guidons flying red; 
With trombone and trumpet 
Flashing through the mirage. 
Leading the shadowy silhouette 
Of horsemen riding on 
Into the swirling dust; 
With the sea-beat of caissons, 
A deeper note against 
The shouts of command 
And clattering hoof beats, 
The Battery goes. 

Into the clouds of swirling dust — 

Choking, sight-blearing dust — 

A-top of jolting caissons 

Which rumble on relentlessly 

Until the silhouette is blurred 

And gone — gone with the gleam of silver 

And guidons flying red. 



24 



Into the clouds of whirling dust 

Goes the Battery on its hike. 

And back through the dust 

It will come — ^with the grumble 

Of caissons and clatter 

Of hoof beats and shouted commands; 

With trombone and trumpet 

Gleaming at the column's head. 

But some dull morning. 

Into the mire of Flanders Field 

(Instead of the dust of this mimic march) 

With no guidons flying red 

And no silver gleam at the column's head. 

The Battery will go — 

A shadowy silhouette 

Of horsemen riding cm 



2$ 



The Mystery of the Mess Fund 

A cussing crew of "tnickies" fetched from 

San Antone 
Where God Almighty's sunshine burned 'em 

to the bone; 
A fighting bunch of reg'lars shooting craps 

and Mex, 
And driving o. d. Packards through mud 

above their necks. 

When messing all together down in San 
Antone, 

They had a whoppin' mess fund (each com- 
pany has its own) ; 

Then orders came to leave there; so they 
cut the crew in twain 

And some drove up to Houston and some 
went east by train. 



26 



But the bunch that hit it eastwards took the 

fund along. 
While the crew that came to Houston found 

the money gone; 
So somewhere on Long Island a crew is 

messing right, 
While somewhere down in Texas a crew is 

nursing spite. 

L'ENVOI 

Now I'm not exactly yellow, 

But I'd stUl donate my chance 

Of standing within gunshot 

When those "truckles" meet in France. 



27 



Tom Were So White, So Soff* 

I knew your gentle touch 

Through all those many years — 
Unheeding then, but now 

How memory endears 
That golden span of time 

And makes me wish anew 
That, since you could not come, 

I might have stayed with you. 

We said good-bye, and yet. 

I went without a thought 
Of what my going meant. 

Or how you held me taut; 
And yet the thought of you 

Each night repose defeats — 
Ah, would I knew agair 

The luxury of sheets! 



To F. K. M. 

The earth lies stark in its dreary shroud. 
As dead as the buds that flowered May. 

The moon is wrapped in a fleeing cloud; 
O, for the song of your voice! 

You had love in your voice 

So thrillingly true. 
That the pipes of Pan 

Were an echo of you! 

My heart grows cold in fright of the blast. 
Like the cry of a loon in a haunted house 

Is the voice of the wind as it rushes past; 
0, for the touch of your hand! 

You had June in your heart 

And beauty so rare. 
That the roses of God 

Bent low in despair! 

My soul is numbed by the chill of the night; 

A lonely mourner on a lonely hill, 
I stand and watch a phantom light ; 

O, for the warmth of your lips! 



29 



To a Baneful Bugler 

We know a bugle's hard to play — 

Unlike a ukelele, 
It's not picked up by everyone — 

And though you practice daily. 
We cannot help but feel at times 

(If we may trust our hearing) 
That you should hold another job 

And not be bugleering. 

A bugle at its best is not 

A treat for aural senses, 
Besides you know that any call 

Which routs us from our tents is 
Regarded as an overt act; 

So kindly when you're playing. 
Desist from flatting all the notes — 

Your "blues" are most dismaying. 

You wake us up at dawn; 

You snujff our lights at night; 
You pipe us into mess. 

And your pitch is seldom right — 
So pardon us for saying 

That often when you're playing 
We wish that you had felt 

You were too proud to fight! 



30 



The Thread of Life 

When the thread of Life is drawn out taut, 

And Death lies down with you. 
You come to see your f ellowman 

From a different point of view; 
You come to find in a hunkie's heart 

A scar that's deep and red. 
And to clasp his hand as a brother would 

With mighty little said. 

When youVe reckoned life in terms of years 

And it comes to counting days. 
You throw away the surface grit 

And work the lode that pays. 
On a killing hike through dust or mud. 

When you pull at the same canteen — 
By God, it makes a man of you. 

Or something mighty mean! 

You find yourself by losing self 

And learn to sweat and grin; 
To bear the brunt of circumstance — 

To shun the one grea>fiin 
Of slinking back or quitting 

Before the job is through; 
And while you count each day as lost. 

It's moulding, making you! 
31 



The American Army 

Our fighting men we deem 

To be composed of Brown, 
And Smith and Black and Jones 

And White — and so on down 
The lengthy list of those 

Conventional monickers; 
And yet the pay roll shows 

Our martial force to be 
A mighty melting pot 

That boasts among the lot 
Some handles quaint as these: 

Michael Spryszyriski, Stanislaw 
Katarskis, Alexander Kvederis, 

Joseph Luchinskis, Jan 
Trozonowicz, John Zygmunt, 

Anton Yowisc, Campioni 
Eucarpio, Guiseppi Del Vecchio. 

Our Nation's fathers, who 

Upheld a fledgling cause. 
Would find it quite a task 

For their untutored jaws» 
To call the muster rolls 

And stutter over names 
Of Croations, Greeks and Poles, 

And appellations of 
Hungarians and "wops, 

Until endeavor stops 



32 



99 



At stumtling blocks like these : 

Rode Burmudzya, Tony 
Karpankas, Vincenzo Zawelsky, 

Zajoe Fronciszek, Woclaw 
Kivikowski, Valeri Valeriano, 

Alkie Gozazialski, Wojceich 
Czajka, Ignazio Digangelioa. 

Yet though a score of "skis" 

Occur for every Jones, 
And though the company clerk 

Espies their length and groans — 
When bugles blow parade 

And medals are bestowed, 
A nation's accolade 

May rest upon the straps 
Of these same *'hunkies" whose 

Dire consonants abuse 
Our ears — ^the honor list of: 

Adam Blasczcynski, Paul 
Ciszewski, Steve Czarmiski, 

Ernst Grantkowski, Alex 
Kwiatkowski, Micyslaw Machedweski, 

Kasimir Skupniewicz, Max 
Skarbonkiewicz, Xenephon Chraileszki. 



33 



Away 



From the silent street 
Comes the beat of feet. 

Dawn and the rain. 
Hushed the city's voice. 

Quiet the drums; 
You are going down — 

Down to entrain. 

Gone — and I bereft. 
Take the love you left — 

Hold it as mine; 
Love that I could give 

Only to you — 
Love that I will keep 

Amarynthine. 



34 



In Praise of Paper Plates 

In ante-bellum days 

When living as a "civ,'* 
We used to wonder at 

A woman's faint procliv- 
ity for doing dishes. 

But, since we wash our kit. 
We've come to know the wishes 
For freedom it engenders 
Among the home defenders. 

We've done it many times 
In quite a cheerful mood. 

But other meals it took 
Our appetite for food 

To sense the task awaiting — 
To know it was our chore 

When done with masticating. 

It's the deadly repetition 

That spoils your disposition. 

So now we view the job 

The same as housewives do; 

And you can rest assured 

That when this war is through. 

If we should go a-courting 
And do a Lohengrin, 

If a maid we can't be sporting 

We will, by all the Fates, 

Resort to paper plates! 

35 



The Incinerator 

Every once in a while 

I see a "kitchen police" 

At the incinerator 

Shoveling up tin cans. 

They are not the sort of tin cans 

You see on the shelves 

Of a grocery store — 

Their fancy colored lahels 

Are gone and only 

The charred tinplate itself 

Is left, hattered and hammered 

Past recognition — 

All according to the regulations 

Duly enforced by the Sanitary Officer. 

And every time I pass 

A man in khaki 

Near a mess shack. 

Shoveling up 

Those bent and broken tins, 

I think of other boys in khaki — 

With puttees shined, 

And creased breeches. 

And starched blouses. 

And gay hat cords — 

Waiting like bright-colored tins 

On a grocer's shelves, 

With War standing 

Shovel in hand 

At the incinerator. 

36 



Christmas Furloughs 

The C. 0.* put the letter down. 

Whose wording military 
Was just the same as many more, 

And said, "It seems a very 
Peculiar thing that at this time 

The health of loving parents 
Should prove to give such grave alarm 

That they require their Terence, 
Or John or James or Theodore 

To come at once — 'if not before'." 

And as he spoke, he paused to note 

The application's dating. 
And you could see the C. 0. was 

Quite sagely estimating 
That ten days leave was just enough 

To span the gala season 
Of Christmas-tide at home with them; — 

And then he knew the reason 
Was just an epidemic of 

Lonely boys and mother-love. 



♦C. O. is the common abbreviation for Commanding Officer. 



37 



More Horrors of War 

No. 1 
The almost tenor 
Who is always going over the top 
Note of his range. 

And insists on singing in the shower 
When you're all lathered up 
And can't retreat — 
Or in the "jit" going to town 
Which is anguishing enough. 
Lord knows. 
Without having to listen 
To "Sw-e-et Ad-e-line," 
Accompanied by a fanfare 
Of spring squeaks and body rattles. 

No. 2 
The correspondent 
Who begins her letter, 
"Well, how do you like the army 
By this time?" 
And then goes on to say 
She doesn't understand 
Why you haven't written her. 
Because one must have 
A lot of time in the army. 
So she will expect a long letter 
In the very near future — 
And closes with 
"I do hope the war will soon be over!' 

38 



No. 3 

The rookie with the ukelele 

Who has decided to take up music 

To help his tentmates 

Pass the lonely hours, 

And who plays "Joan of Arc" 

In a way that would start 

The French Revolution 

All over again. 

And who gets up at daylight 

On Sunday mornings — 

When you don't have to fall out 

For reveille — 

To practice the new music 

His sister sent him — 

A new piece called 

"My Rosary." 

No. 4 

The laundryman who sends back 

Your best khaki suit, 

Looking like the fake marble paper 

They use in apartment buildings. 

And who shrinks an o. d. shirt 

Till it looks like a chest protector. 

And then doesn't bring back 

Your stuff until Tuesday 

When you have a date 

With the Mustering Officer of the Division 

For nine o'clock Sunday morning. 

39 



The Food I Left Behind Me 

We heard today from one among 

The very first to cross the sea. 

"I've slept in the rain and mud," he said, 

"Where candles are a luxury. 

Though it may he that your reply 

To this will never find me, 

I only know of one regret — 

The food I left behind me! 

"I've slept with rats in crater holes — 
I've sniffed the gases — fought the lice — 
I've passed up sleep and passed up smokes. 
The thousand things you sacrifice ; 
But here I stay to see it through. 
There's just one tie to hind me 
To the life I lived so long ago — 
The food I left behind me! 



40 



"To think of salads, steaks and chops. 

Potatoes, pie and savory fish 

I left upon my dinner plate! 

I often wish I had some dish 

I spurned in the past whose very sight 

Today would nearly blind me — 

Would I had what waiters got 

Of the food I left behind me! 

"Those plates of luscious edibles 
I nibbled at and pushed away — 
Now rise again like steaming wraiths 
And haunt me every eatless day. 
Oh, someone send me kindly 
A table d'hote allowance of 
The food I left behind me!" 



41 



Gone 

Gone 

Are the lull 

Of your voice 

And the play 

Of your white hands 

Against your hair. 

Gone 

The slenderness 
And youth of you — 
The silken tracery 
Of your loveliness. 

Gone 

Your eager lips 
And the cool warmth 
Of your slender fingers. 

Only 

Your letter before me 
Saying again and again, 
"I love your 



42 



Camp . . . at Night 

The night comes down with a sweep of stars. 
And through the pines the tents aglow 
Like giant jack o^lanterns gleam. 

The grey mists rise — a scarf of tulle — 
While shadow forms pass to and fro 
The flare of fire at the sentry post. 

The lonely songs in douhtful key — 

The thrumming whirr of an aeroplane 

• • • » 

The growing still . . • . lights out and "Taps." 



43 



Nobody Realizes How Serious It Is 

We went to town in a jitney bus, 

And the "civ" who shared a seat with us 

Began to chat about the war, 

As many "civs" have done before — 

And the text of his talk was mostly this: 

**/ was telling some of the boys 
last night that nobody in this 
country realizes how serious 
this war is, and they won*t, 
either, until some of our boys 
get shot over there and we see 
their names in the paper J" 

We Stopped at an ^'approved" cafe, 
To dine in a frugal, Hoover way. 

And our vis-a-vis soon broke the ice 
To give the Staff some sage advice — 

But the gist of his speech was mostly this: 

*7 was just telling the Mrs. 
this morning that nobody in 
this country realizes how 
serious this war is, and they 
woTit, either, until some of 
our boys get shot over there 
and we see their names in the 
paper" 



44 



We went to dance in a khaki crush. 

And above the din of social gush, 
We heard a flapper's cooing tones 

As she told her partner, Sargint Jones, 
The throbbing thought in her marcelled head; 

*7 was just telling Betty 
this afternoon, when I had 
tea with her, that nobody in 
this country realizes how 
serious this war is, and they 
won't, either, until some of 
our boys get shot over there 
and we see their names in the 
paper,*' 



45 



Ifs Awful Far from My Folks 

A national army rookie — 

A city stoop in his back 
And eyes of helpless wonder — 

Against the company shack; 
Come with a train of others, 

Passed through the draft machine. 
Shipped from the camp at Rockford 

To face this new unseen. 
We put the bromide query, 

*'How do you like it here 
In the land of Texas sun and 'smokes'?' 

"I think it's fine," he answered, 
"But it's awful far from my folks." 

So we lit a "hump" and passed 'em 

And asked about the "chow"; 
Inquired if he hadn't noticed 
He was feeding better now; 
Prognosticated weather 

Like a tourist folder tells. 
And opined that digging trenches 
And dodging dummy shells 
Was hell, compared to sitting 
In the Q. M. soling shoes. 
He nods and speaks in sort of chokes : 

*'You've got it right about the place. 
But it's awful far from my folks." 



46 



He reached in his khaki breeches 

And tightened up his mouth, 
"A letter my brother sent me 

Before we started south." 
So I read the scrawly writing — 

They all were worried sick 
And hoped he'd get a furlough 

And see them mighty quick. 
**We'll soon be going over, 
And — of course a guy may live. 
Or — ^well, even if he croaks. 

It ain't that I'm afraid to go — 
But it's awful far from my folks." 



47 



A Form of Conservation 

A General Order says 

To put our "putts" away; 

And so it's taps for them. 
Regret it as we may. 

An order is an order — 
It's canvas from today. 

Until the hlow was met 
We seldom gave a thought 

To what they meant to us — 

But since the havoc's wrought. 

We know in Mars' apparel 
We figure as a nought. 

We think of selling them 

But always we defer 
The date — the thought of them 

Adorning some chauffeur 
Sets our finer feelings 

Throbbing in demur. 

And so we pack them with 
The pictures of our kin. 

And when at last they still 
The awful martial din 

We'll use our leather "putts" 
To bind these verses in! 



•48 



A Gay Night 



Through the mud and rain 
To town — to a "movie" 
Where the organ notes 
Fall as soothingly 
As a shower on a tin roof. 

To a "movie" 

Where people live and love 

In houses — in rooms, 

Where there are lounge chairs. 

And pictures on the walls. 

And long shelves of books. 

To a "movie" 
Where the beauty 
Of Elsie Ferguson 
Comes as an apparition — 
Woman incarnate. 

And then back to camp 

Through rain and mud. 

To huddle in your non-uniform blankets 

While the rain trickles through 

The spark-holes in the canvas. 



49 



From the Warmth of Wonted Days 

Away from the warmth 

Of wonted days 

And the glow and thrill 

Of the flowing crowd — 

A pushing tide 

With driftwood faces. 

Swift of lure — 

Faces we come upon 

In the nitrogen glare 

Of shop windows. 

To lose a moment later 

In the shadows and shove. 

Away from the elhow-rubhing 
Of the hotel lobby 
With its flow of activity 
And lounging onlookers; 
With bell-boys wriggling 
Through the press, paging 
This name and that — 
With groups of men 
In khaki and serge; 
With salesmen scurrying 
For their trains. 
While from the cafe 
And the mezzanine 
Comes the mingled echo 
Of ragtime and Mimi's song. 



50 



Away from the organ notes 
Of the "movie" — from Hart 
And Douglas Fairbanks 
And Norma Talmadge; 
Away from the jazz patriotics 
Of vaudeville — its dogs 
And dancers and acrobats. 

Away from the clasp 
Of friendly hands 
And the welcome voices 
We have known so well 
And yet known so little. 

Gone are the glow 
And life — the warmth 
Of newly wonted days. 



Written in the Fall of 1917 when it was rumored the- 33rd 
Division would soon leave Houston for an eastern point of 
embarkation. 



51 



A Burning Issue 



If you've kept a Q. M. warehouse with all its 

varied store 
Of bacon, corn and syrup bulging out the door. 
You know that promptly monthly you close it 

for the day. 
To figure up your reckoning with the U. S. A. 

If a man^s been awful careful to get a Sergeant's 

eye 
For all the stuff he's issued, he ain't so apt to die 
When he comes to prove his record; but even 

then you'll see 
That a lot of stuff is "debit" where a "credit" 

ought to be. 

Now in Luzon on the Islands the sun is hellish 

hot. 
And your stock is apt to shrivel, shrink or go to 

rot. 
And the Q. M.'s who were out there were good at 

figuring bad. 
So the books were in a tangle — ^very, very sad. 



52 



So the chief civilian clerkie, telling at a glance 
That the wayward little depot didn't have a 

chance 
To reconcile its books and wipe its slate up clean. 
Did a little quiet thinking and used some kero- 
sene. 

The night the chief got busy came a little breeze, 
And the fire wiped out the depot pretty as you 

please; 
And to show you that suspicion didn't even lurk. 
The chief was recommended for fearless rescue 

work. 



53 



To ''The Army Tailor 

Shirts 0. D. I brought 
To your studio — 
Sleeves that met my wrists 
In the long ago. 

But not now; 
Shrunk by laundries vile, 
'Til they hit me where 
They were just the length 
Debutantes might wear 

To a dance. 
You, with magic shears. 
Eked them down anew — 
Amputated tail. 
Hidden from the view. 

Was the trick. 
So with breeches tight- 
Fitted to a size 
Where I breathed without 
Hastening my demise. 

As it were. 
Collars' scrawny height 
You, with baffling skill. 
Raised to fit my neck; 
So I swear until 
I am dumb 
I will sing your praise — 
Twang without the mute — 
Sing the only rift 
In the awful lute 

Of misfits. 

54 



95 



General Byng and Private Bang 

The King is duly proud 
(The morning papers tell us) 
Of the newest Flemish drive. 
Accomplished by the zealous 
Lieutenant-General Byng. 
So, struck by admiration. 
His Highness grabs his pen 
And tells the English nation 
He thinks so much of Byng, 
He's making him a General — 
To show his great esteem 
Is more than just ephemeral. 
But as we read the news 
About the King's elation. 
We noted with concern — 
Right after its narration — 
The toll of British dead. 
The count was not specific. 
But as you read you knew 
It must have been terrific. 
Of those who gave their lives 
There wasn't any mention; 
And while we credit George 
With excellent intention. 
It just occurred to us. 
While the praise of Byng he sang. 
If he gave a passing thought 
To the fate of Private Bang. 



55 



To James Alfred Gillespie 

January 20, 1918 

Though you are gone. 
It is no simpler now 
To voice the love I knew 
Or find in fragrant words 
A threnody for you. 
Mute as comrades are 
Whose pledge of faith is dumb, 
I find when I would speak 
The phrases do not come. 

When you were here 
We never put in words 
The kinship so unsought; 
As a silent garden rose 
Might flower without thought 
To fade in the day's grey hush. 
It grew so straight and tall 
We did not see the menace 
In the shadows from the wall. 

So quick to give; 
Your willingness to serve, 
So fraught with fine intent. 
Became the gift of life — 
And what your going meant 
I know but cannot say. 



56 



The Sanitary Train 

Down the pine-fringed lane 
Comes the sanitary train, 
A long line of o. d. trucks 
Close on the other's tailboard — 
A lengthening streak of drab 
Against the green trees. 

Truck after truck winds into 
The grey stretch of road; 
And where the exhaust spits out. 
Clouds of dust rise like smoke puffs 

Sharp in the brilliant sunlight 

Are swaying figures of men. 

Jostling one another 

As the lorries lurch along — 

And the rumble of them 

Is like the distant pound of surf. 

Still they twist into the road— 
A long frieze against a blue drop, 
A lumbering line of retrievers 
To fetch back the hulks of men. 



57 



Lines to a Wrist Watch 

I chaffed as others did 

And flung a festive mot 
But that, my falcon true, 

Was in the long ago 
When time was mine 

To give or lend or spend 
— Before a bugle call 

Became the bitter end 
Of a perfect sleep. 

I used to think it quaint 

That meters of the trist 
Should dare expose their face 

Upon a manly wrist. 
But that was long ago, 

Before I ever knew 
A sergeant's awful wrath 

Or what he says to you 
When you are late. 



S8 



It's easy as a civ 

To lean on frequent clocks 
And snatch the fleeting time — 

That's why the townsman mocks 
The watch that lives its days 

Affixed to someone's wrist; 
But when it comes to U. S. 

You're first upon the list 
Of Johnny Gun. 

To know your cheery glow; 

To see your steady hands 
Tick off the weary hours — 

The slowly running sands 
That trickle through the glass 

Of Time and speed its span- 
Is to come to thirds of you 

As a comrade and a man. 
You pal o' mine! 



59 



Coming Back From the Range 

Dust and heavy legs, 

Dust and stinging feet. 

Dust and throats a-thirst. 

And voices singing 

Several songs at once. 

Rising, mingling as the dust — 

*WeHl walk a mile 

And rest a while. 

We're sixteen miles from home*' 

'^Glorious, glorious. 

One bottle of beer for the four of us.'* 
*'Huck-el-berry Finn 

el'berry Finn'' 

— ^^until it's over 

Over there!" 

Rifles every whichway 

And sagging shoulders; 

The rustle and swish 

Of feet dragging in route step. 

With now and then 

The cocoanut shell clatter 

Of horses' hoofbeats. 

And the mingling of other songs — 

Fresh choruses that belie 

The fatigue and weariness 

Of the dust-ridden straggling column 

Of blue-denim doughboys. 



60 



War Brides 

Jack Thompson went to a training camp. 

As a lot of fellows did, 
And took the course of martial sprouts 

And did as he was bid. 
He learned the drill and got his fill 

Of devious ways of killing. 
And met a girl and in a whirl 

He asked and found her willing. 

They only met for a minute's span — 

They only loved for a day. 
But Mars and Cupid urged them on 

And no one bade them stay. 
He was a Lieut, and she was cute 

And after frenzied wooing. 
With a mutual thrill, they said "I will,' 

As everyone was doing. 

Jack Thompson went with his regiment 

And passed through fight and fire. 
And aged a year with every week 

He lived in Flanders' mire. 
He came back home with an older "dome 

To find the lady waiting. 
Still white and pink, but she couldn't think 

So beware of hasty mating! 



61 



99 



If 



If I stould die 
My little death, 

Think then of me; 
And let the tears 
You shed hecome 

My threnody. 

I would live on 
To know your love 

And press your lips; 
But Fate drives hard, 
With tightened curb, 

And whips and whips! 



62 



Jitney Problem Solved 

Coming in from Camp 

In a ramping jitney bus 
We note our driver's work 

And it occurs to us 
That it's a dire mistake 

To lose this Lochinvar 
When we could commandeer 

His genius for a star 
Of aviation. 

We know the acid test 

They give to every man. 
We know they try his nerve 

By every trick they can; 
And still we feel secure 

In saying we should take 
This Jehu of the road 

And, ipso facto, make 
A daring pilot 



63 



To see him miss a Hunk 

By a fraction of an inch 
Or brush a trolly car 

Or "civ" and never flinch 
Makes it seem a shame 

To think this genius runs 
A "Jit" — oh, why not use 

His skill against the Huns? 
He'd surely strafe them. 

L'ENVOI 

O General Staff, please 
Send him far 

Across the sea 
And keep our streets 
Inviolate for 

Democracy. 



64 



Conscripts of Destiny 

"The Conscripts of Destiny" — 
We find the phrase 
Staring from the page. 

Are we all — 

Selected men or volunteers — 

Merely the conscripts 

Of Fate? 

Is our will — 

The individualism 

We, in the past. 

Husbanded so — 

Enlisted, like our legs and arms. 

For the term of the crisis? 

Can we suffer 

The subordination of self 

And become cog-like 

In the intricacies 

Of the imperfectly working machine. 

And yet escape 

The discontent 

Which fills us all 

When, 

Like pins on a map. 

We cannot understand 

The scheme of the whole? 



65 



Are we all — 

Selected men or volunteers — 

The conscripts of Fate, 

Or are we willing 

To serve humbly — 

To suffer and bear 

With the toll of Circumstance — 

And still keep before us 

The vision of serving? 



66 



Home on Furlough 

I'm going back to blighty 

To rest in a "civvy" bed — 
Away from bugles' warning. 

Where I can lay my head 
And stretch my limbs on linen 

To sleep until I wake. 
And eat the sort of pastry 

That mother used to bake. 

I'm going back to blighty — 

To hearts that all salaam 
To me as to a Colonel 

And not the "buck" I am; 
I'm going back in triumph 

To waiting arms and cheer — 
To all that's home and mother. 

To everything that's dear. 

I'm going back to blighty — 

I'll be there mighty soon. 
And how my heart is singing 

With "Home, Sweet Home" attune — 
It sings with the engine's whistle. 

It sings with the clicking rails. 
For blighty's always blighty. 

And blighty never fails. 



67 



In the Showier 

Muscles rippling 

Under the dripping flesh 

Of stripped men. 

Figures of unconscious grace 

As they scrub themselves, 

And extend their arms and legs, 

Or throw back their heads 

To rinse off the lather; 

Or bend over 

To feel the grateful sting 

Of cold water on their backs. 

A dozen splendid forms 

That flash from pose to pose. 

Supple, strong, 

Exulting in the freshness and feel 

Of the splashing streams — 

God-made machines of beauty. 

Marking time, waiting 

For the pitiless havoc 

Of man-made murder. 



68 



To a Bunkie^ Newly Commissioned 

Good-bye, old man, and luck! 

The best the army holds 
Is none too good for you; 

And tho' the Future's moulds 
May cast our ways apart. 

No bars or stripes can change 
Our comradeship of heart. 

It's "curtains" for the days 

And nights we chummed as one — 

It's a final grip as pals 
Until the war is done. 

Good-bye — ^with little said. 
But what is "black and gold" 

So long as blood is red? 



69 



The Joy of Days Like These 

It's spring down here in Dixie, 

And the glory of its days 
Thrills with golden wonder. 

As the glinting sunlight plays 
Across the pines, uplifting 

Against the sweep of blue 
Where clouds go winging northwards. 

Winging north to you. 

It is Spring with a touch of Heaven, 

With the age-old thrill of life ; 
And a million Pans are playing 

A melody that's rife 
With the lilt of childish laughter. 

Afloat in the vibrant breeze. 
It's Spring, and the love of loving 

Is the joy of days like these. 

It's Spring — O, the zest of living 

When all roads stretch away 
To the green of other places 

And lurking holiday; 
When the scent of new green grasses 

Climbs to my head like wine. 
When gipsy dogs are barking, 

And I know that you are mine! 



70 



To F. K. M. 

You are so far away 

Whom I would have so near. 
You cannot hear me say 

What I would tell you, dear. 
I cannot clasp your hand 

Nor know the gentle stir 
Of timid breasts that breathed 

Of frankincense and myrrh. 

Unknowing of its worth. 

As one might stand and hold 
The art of Japanese 

In a tapestr)^ of gold. 
So I, in fragrant days 

We filched from war's alarms. 
Came to know your love 

And had you in my arms. 

But had I known as now 

The respite were so brief. 
And had I known as now 

How quickly Chance — the thief- 
Would take you from my clasp 

And leave me so bereft. 
We would have found a way 

To circumvent the theft. 



71 



Your Letters 

Those packets of paper and ink 

We haunt the mail man for, 
To read each little page 

And wish it were a score. 
Are just a shadow self; 

And though with memory fraught^ 
When what we want is you 

The lines we read are naught. 

They haven't the thrill of your touch. 

They haven't the glow of your lips; 
At best they're only words 

That you sped from your finger tips ; 
They haven't the tilt of your hat 

Nor the simple charm of your dress. 
And what is a paper vow 

Or a pen and ink caress? 

They haven't the sheen of your hair. 

They haven't the joy of your smile — 
And though these letters are you 

And must be you for a while, 
Some day we'll put away 

These ghosts and lock them fast 
And hold you ever so close - 

When we come home at last. 



72 



